2 Chapter 2: Magic
After dying and pulling a perfectly executed Lazarus move, albeit in a different body. One would think I'd end up somewhat desensitised to the unexpected; surreal and insane as it may be. Boy would they be wrong.
Nearly breaking my nose when the supernatural hold suddenly stopped keeping me afloat; I panicked like an Asian kid who got a b- in maths, which is to say; a lot.
I flew, my nine years old reincarnated ass literally flew for no apparent reason. Oh, I loved it, except the part where gravity made me sexually assault the wooden floor.
Nursing my painful, but thankfully uninjured nose. I quickly set aside both annoyance and awe to objectively analyse the situation, the way my grandfather taught me all those years ago.
'I flew, and from the journal I can safely assume it wasn't an aftereffect of my soul occupying this body. It is therefore an innate characteristic of my new physique, it also isn't limited to levitation; the diary tells of teleportation, pyrokinesis and an unknown offensive ability…These are but the confirmed anomalies, the boy is likely to have missed many of them. It doesn't seem to be normal, so it is yet unknown if I am in another world or my own world's past. The second is likely to be impossible; I am currently in 1989 while I was born more than a decade later, the butterfly effect would probably prevent my birth, change my circumstances or even prevent my death. Therefor creating a paradox or multiple timelines, the later would essentially be another world.'
While the prospect of nullifying my very existence was dread inducing, I was too far gone in my analyse to notice anything wrong with it.
"I am thus reincarnated in a different, but similar world as a nine years old British orphan with unstable, highly versatile supernatural abilities in 1989." Voicing my conclusions was a bad habit, i knew that, but it was the way the old man taught me...
I've been an avid fanfiction reader, I'd go as far to call myself a veritable connoisseur of the fool craft. I had as such an obvious suspicion; it was barely a theory, let alone a conclusion. But it was there, and I would still investigate it.
A knock on the door pulled me out of my thoughts. Stifling my growing panic, I quickly devised a plan of action, and a contingency plan, and a contingency for the contingency plan. You could say that I didn't require so many plans, you could also say that the earth is flat, in both cases; you'd be wrong.
Putting on my most pleasant smile, making sure my eyes brightened just enough to seem genuine. Fake smiles were an art form I practised regularly, though i couldn't find much pride in the fact that very few could see through me.
"Good morning, ma'am." I greeted the newcomer, my voice carrying just enough mirth to earn the same response.
"Morning, sweetie" smiled the woman, probably a caretaker. She was a middle-aged lady with average features, wearing a simple dress that went well with her short brown locks.
She entered the room, walking straight to those nightmare-inducing pink curtains and opening them in a practised movement.
"You're already dressed? Good, you should hurry up and have some breakfast, classes will start soon." Her words confronted me with one of the many undesirable consequences of reincarnation in such a young body; school.
It was a dreadful prospect I'll get to experience soon enough, after eating my fill and nearly getting lost searching for the toilets. But it couldn't be that bad, right?
(---)
'Fuck me sideways', was all I could think as I looked away from the anguished face of my teacher, who was reading a nonsensical wholly inaccurate history book, to the bickering children who were 'the future of humanity', and to that one kid who ate his boogers.
It was, indeed as bad as I thought.
A quick look at the kid who was eating someone else's booger made me change my mind.
It was even worse
Explaining the level of sheer inaptitude of the actual educational system would take hours, inversely, explaining why it was like this was a simple matter.
School were made to provide workforce, employees, technicians; not thinkers. It was never about learning, it was about having the necessary level to be employed by rich, selfish people to make their bank accounts that much fuller.
If you were part of the lucky one percent, you wouldn't want your workers to use their brains, you'd want them to be happy, upstanding members of society who will buy whatever shit you produce without ever asking themselves why you were drinking martinis on a yacht and buying pure-gold toilet seats while they worked their asses off to pay their student loans.
That's how you end up with miserable educators, teaching mind-numbing subjects in the most inefficient, boring way possible.
And in the middle of that, your truly, who's forced to run this gauntlet of misery one more time.
Isn't it wonderful?
(---)
After nearly losing my sanity yet another time, I finally came back to that sweet, dreary orphanage. Though I was tempted to go play some chess with Old Duncan, in hopes of resurrecting some brain cells, my sweaty body convinced me that a shower was in order.
Entering the bathroom, I looked to the mirror and saw for what I realised was the first time, my new body. I carefully inspected my appearance, vanity had a whole new meaning when you once saw your cherished body decay and crumble under exceedingly violent therapies. Carefully built muscles atrophied, luscious hairs falling…looking good would be nice.
I looked in the glass. A fair skinned little boy looked back; he was pale but not sickly. Elegant jet-black hairs fell down his head, soft and velvety, they would probably be his best feature if not for those eyes.
I elatedly admired those eyes, his eyes; those radiant orbs of amber were magnificent. Despite their rarity, this wasn't the first time I witnessed this colour. Oh, how familiar I was with those eyes. The eyes of a mentor, the strict gaze that wouldn't look out of place in the visage of an eagle; the eyes of my grandfather.
Yes, I liked this new body.
'But there is still much to do'
-BREAK-
Before the democratization of internet, gathering information was a hard, time consuming business. If you had to research something, you'd need to find a library and hope they have the books you require.
Fortunately, the orphanage had a library and I have always been an avid reader. I quickly determined that the history of this world was the same as mine, which might indicate that this was indeed our good old messed up earth, if not for a tiny little detail…
If you are less than twenty years old, chances are you don't know what's the Yellow pages.
Back in the dark ages, before google illuminated our lives and apple freed us from the burden of a full wallet. People used a telephone directory, printed on yellow paper and containing information about professionals, it listed businesses and other organisations according to the products and services they provided. If you were looking for a company in your country, you'd have to read the yellow pages.
Which was precisely what I was doing, it was a lengthy process, one that could very well be fruitless. Yet surely enough, a drill-making company in surrey fitted my criteria.
'Grunnings; an offensive, ridiculous name that brought forth an equally ridiculous truth. Yet it was now undeniable, it was too much to be a coincidence.' I thought, exasperatedly closing the book.
"I'm a wizard." It should have been mind-blowing, an epiphany of gargantuan proportions. I should have panicked, made a fuss over the moral and existential implication rebirth in a fictional world presented. But there was none of that, only contentment at finally knowing; knowing where I was, what I was and where I would be.
A smile blossomed on my face, it wasn't the artificial joy I begrudgingly wore to retain a modicum of control over both myself and the situation. It was a Duchenne smile, as the old man would say; a smile of true, unaltered happiness.
I have magic.
To hell with existential crises, to hell with common sense. I have physic-defying, reality-warping magic! Was it crazy? Obviously, but was it crazier than transmigration? Nope.
Hurrying back in the relative safety of my room, I calmed myself enough to think properly. I'd much rather enjoy the ecstasy of my new discovery, alas the veracity of my theory called for new plans.
'Now, how do I deal with magical fascists who would enjoy pulling a blitzkrieg on my blood, immortal noseless half-bloods with daddy issues, soul-sucking amortal abominations and a ferret whose father would hear about it?' I somehow felt that it would be a very long night.
(---)
The next few days saw me fall into a comfortable routine; waking up early in the morning, stretching and grooming myself into an acceptable appearance. Having one of those absurdly copious English breakfasts, which had a severe lack of pancakes. Losing my brain cells in school, coming back in the afternoon and spending some time with Duncan, who was pretty good company once you got to know him. Working out to put this body in a better shape.
And of course, trying to control my newly-identified accidental magic. Saying that the results weren't satisfactory was an understatement, my initial levitation being the only burst of magic I had experienced; the only direct proof that I wasn't a muggle.
Just like that a month passed, with no progress whatsoever. I tried meditation, concentration, mimicking wand movements with my hands yet it yielded him no result. School was boring, Duncan was nice enough, my room was cold, I could do no magic. Rinse and repeat.
And another month passed, were the only magic I managed was not to strangle Miss Wilson; my history teacher who thought that the colonies weren't so bad. School was boring, Duncan was nice enough, my room was cold, I could do no magic. Rinse and repeat.
And a third one, and a fourth one. I did not give up, I was stubborn to a fault. But as the fifth month of failure came to an end, frustration was not a good enough word to describe what I was feeling.
Half a year, I wasted half a year of my new life. Sacrificed time, effort and my happiness and yet it availed me nothing; some things could never change.
My emotions went out of control, something I did my best to avoid. Emotions would cloud my judgment and make me the slave of my own ego, keeping a firm grasp on them was a necessity.
Yet sometimes, you just need to let things go.
The dam broke, months of frustration let free. This immature anger felt like a wildfire below my skin, ready to lash out at the first offender. My eyes fell on those horrible, horrendous, horrifying, horrifically horrid ratty pink curtains. This thing should be purged with fire in the name of all things sacred, and so it did.
The bottom of those god-forsaken curtain was set ablaze, and fury left its place to worry. Rushing in to try and put out the fire before the whole housed burned, I hurriedly opened the window and pushed the curtains through it; thankful for Britain's ever-raining weather.
It could have gone very wrong, very fast. I knew that, it was irresponsible and dangerous and incredibly reckless. But it was also magic, and it taught me a good lesson.
Emotions make some of the most powerful intents.
"Now, how should I explain this to the caretakers?" I asked no one in particular, I eventually settled on the usual strategy.
'Bullshit will do just fine.'
-BREAK-
-General POV-
On one of march's rare sunny days, in the inner courtyard of a particularly baleful looking institution. An elderly, red bearded Scotsman and an amber eyed, dark haired young boy were making the most of the distinctly agreeable day.
"…And then I told him that if he really loved the lass, he shouldn't be afraid of making engagements. I meant that he should meet her parents or something, not ask for her bloody hand two months after meeting her! The girl's father chased him across the whole town, couldn't get his hands on him. That's why we wall him speedy." Said the old man, a quick glance made him chuckle mildly "You lose in two turns by the way."
"What do you mean?" Magnus didn't think he'd lose this fast, the old man was a better player, but he was sure he'd last a few more turns. A look at the old man's bishop proved him wrong, he would indeed lose in two turns. "…shit" he blurted out, earning himself a flick on the forehead.
"Mind your bloody language, boy." Duncan, Magnus noted, was a living paradox the likes of which only Scotland could produce. He liked him nonetheless. The old man was kind, entertaining and honest to the bone.
It was important to slow down sometimes, Magnus knew that. So, it became a habit to play some chess with the older man, listening to the latter's stories was a pleasant, oftentimes hilarious activity. And the reincarnated orphan knew there was nothing better than a good laugh to keep yourself sane, Jokers notwithstanding.
It had been a long year for the now ten years old boy, a full year since he set those damned curtains on fire and made his first breakthrough in pursuit of wandless magic. A year he spent planning, practising, learning, experimenting and expanding his admittedly limited supernatural abilities.
As his fiery incident taught him, emotions were an important aspect of magic. Using this information, he engineered situations to produce emotional responses that would in turn be channelled into rough, incontrollable bouts of not-so-accidental magic. The act allowed him to familiarise with the feeling, the quintessence that flowed through him and allowed to make the impossible happen, within limits.
The familiarity eventually grew enough to become awareness, Magnus found it hard to describe. The feeling that his whole body contained a force, a highly mutable esoteric power that could shape reality when properly channelled. It wasn't matter, nor energy. It wasn't good or evil, neither entirely beneficial nor inherently harmful; it was simply pure possibility. A grey maybe that he could control with enough willpower.
The concept of magic was easy, so much that even young children should be able to perform it. A strong intent, often provided by a potent enough emotion, would interact with the primordial force of nature within all magicals. Magic would react and accomplish the wizard's wish.
What was hard, was actually providing a clear, powerful enough intent to precisely shape one's magic. Spells cast with a wand seemed easier, the tool would focus the wizard's magic and potentially amplify it while a spell's incantations and wand movements were manufactured, crystal-clear intents to manipulate the caster's magic. That was but a theory, but the deeper Magnus delved into his practise of wandless magic, the more likely it seemed.
The amber eyed magical could now perform some basic spells; it was rough, tiring and inefficient. The boy had briefly entertained the idea that relying on a magical focus could be avoided, but his less than stellar performances showed him the opposite.
There was a reason even the brightest, most powerful sorcerers used wands. If wandless magic was a reliable discipline, why would they bother with those crutches? Why would people like Nicholas Flamel, Gellert Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore use an inefficient method? Why would the goblins start so many rebellions for the right to carry a wand?
He needed a wand, that much was clear. Oh, how he wanted to rush to Ollivanders and get fitted for one, sadly he had neither the gold nor right to do so. Fortunately, march was ending and everyday brought him closer to the first of august. The day where he would receive the fateful letter, carried by a most peculiar messenger.
"You lose again, lad." Chuckled the old scot, his rook condemning Magnus's king.
"Damn it!" cursed the boy, only to receive another sermon.
'Only a few more months'
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'The Mad God has charged me to inform you that you ought to drop your power stones and leave a comment, lest you find yourself cursed with sanity.
Cordially, Haskill.'
